


Her Sweet Kiss (His Bitter Lament)

by SpaceSexual



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Enemies to Friends, Gen, Getting to Know Each Other, Rivalry, Singing, i just think they could have quite a lot in common, theres only the slash tag but this can be read as general, they should talk
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-07
Updated: 2020-01-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:54:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22155091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpaceSexual/pseuds/SpaceSexual
Summary: Jaskier sings to warn, to get revenge, to stave off the hurt that aches in his chest. Yennefer finds the bard pickled and takes pity on him.Maybe they both just need to have a heart to heart.(Now with chapters!)
Relationships: Jaskier | Dandelion/Yennfer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 12
Kudos: 89





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I really /really/ like this song.

He’s already playing the song. His fingers had already started trilling down his lute, plucking away, sharp and fast like a rapid heartbeat. 

Jaskier, honestly, would have stopped singing had this been any other day, any other town… probably… probably not. Heartache’s a bitch, and sometimes? So is he. 

So when violet eyes alight upon him, raven dark hair fanning in gentle waves, shoulders shrugging the gentle snowfall off an _expensive_ fur coat - he begins to sing.

_The fairer sex, they often call it_

_But her love’s as unfair as a crook_

He’s locking eyes with her. He knows her. He’s seen more of her than he’d ever want to - especially _now_ , knowing her personally. 

_It steals all my reason_

_Commits every treason_

_Of logic, with naught but a look_

She moves to the bar, eyes dismissive, that cascade of hair putting the _lust_ in lustrous. 

_A storm breaking on the horizon_

_Of longing and heartache and lust_

_She’s always bad news_

A smirk. Jaskier can feel his eye twitch as he looks away from her, head turning to the rapt half of the bar he’s been cajoling and crooning with. Their drinks have been deep, but their attention is drawn back to him. 

_It’s always lose, lose_

He’s moving through the crowd, keeping a tight circle to the interior of the tavern, away from the bar, locking eyes with every attendee who looks his way. They’re uncomfortable and it’s feeding his fingers as he plays.

_So tell me love, tell me love_

_?How is that just_

He looks back to violet eyes and Yennefer has a drink in her hand, an unimpressed look on her face. She tips her hand as if telling him to ‘go on’.

_But the story is this_

Jaskier _will_ go on.

_She’ll destroy with her sweet kiss_

_Her sweet kiss_

And he’ll warn everyone on his way.

_But the story is this_

_She’ll destroy with her sweet kiss_

He’s baring his teeth at the refrain, feeling his jaw clench as he plucks faster, anger bubbling up in his chest as she just passively watches him come undone.

_Her current is pulling you closer_

_And charging the hot, humid night -_

His teeth click on the ‘t’. He looks back to the crowd, their eyes rapt on him as he beckons them with his eyes, his face.

_The red sky at dawn is giving a warning, you fool_

_Better stay out of sight_

When he looks back at her, so do the patrons. 

He’s almost gleeful as her brow twitches, violet eyes skipping over faces as bodies and chairs tilt ever so slightly in her direction.

_I’m weak my love, and I am wanting -_

Jaskier tilts his head, as he leans into the words, voice rough from an hour long set, rougher still as he grinds through the lyrics.

_If this is the path I must trudge_

_I welcome my sentence_

_Give to you my penance_

_Garrotter, jury and judge_

He holds the rest for a moment longer than usual, the hush in the room at the dearth of music lets the palpable tension be felt. Really, he should have sought _her_ out sooner, probably would have become _world_ famous for this performance.

Steel strings hiss a little, his fingers just edging as they slide to position. 

_But the story is this_

_She’ll destroy with her sweet kiss_

_Her sweet kiss_

He’s rolling out the words, letting them swell and fall like storm clouds.

_But the story is this_

_She’ll destroy with her sweet kiss_

_She_ may be magic, be all-powerful, be the lithe beauty who can wind a finger and find a Witcher wrapped around it. But - 

_But the story is this_

_She’ll destroy with her sweet kiss_

_Her sweet kiss_

The croon is warbled and wavering. Jaskier knows what _want_ is. What _wanting love_ feels like. What it _looks_ like in someone’s eyes - whether they be an otherwordly violet, an animalistic yellow, or even his mundane blue.

_But the story is this_

_She’ll destroy with her sweet kiss_

He knows what it _feels_ like to seek acceptance, a gentle word, a soft smile. Seek worthiness. Seek love.

_The story is this_

_She’ll destroy with her sweet kiss._

His song ends, and he can feel his lips turn up as the tavern keeps a wary eye turned in Yennefer’s direction. 

Something in him sparks.

Jaskier, renowned bard, travelling the continent, tipping his cap, spreading the word. 

_Beware the witch._

His lips turn up as the crowd look back to him, faces open, expectant. 

He gives Yennefer one last look before he starts plucking out _Toss a Coin_.

**Beware the witch… and welcome your Witcher.**

  
  
  
  



	2. Give the Bard a Hand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yennefer's just seen a drunk bard stumble around a room, pickled and peacocking around, singing a song about her.

Yennefer trailer her finger along the lip of the tankard, watching the bard ready his hands and pick out his next little _diddy_. 

It’s a wonder, really, that the man can stand upright after a display like that. His eyes are bloodshot, the dark circles highlighting those crows feet at the creases. He’s been pickling himself in a tavern all night and thinks one drunken ballad has _some_ power. Everyone in the tavern is just as pickled pissed as he is.

She didn’t need to read his thoughts to get what the song was about - he’s a bard, he practically screams his opinions on the world like he’s entitled to do it. 

_Her_ **_sweet_ ** _kiss_. What a pithy line. Yennefer watches a moment more, as Jaskier tilts around the tavern, his fingers steady on the strings and shaking apart everywhere else. 

He shoots one last look at her, a smirk on his face, brows waggling like he’s won some hidden upper hand and Yennefer stands. 

He’s drunk, pathetic, and wallowing in a misery he’s _not_ deserving of because _of course_ he is. The man’s practically a child stretched tall and let’s his emotions swing him around the end of a bottle, the fringe of a battle, and it’s just _too much_. 

Yennefer’s quite honestly had enough of it as she steps through the crowd, nearing the pushed table clearing the bard has encircled himself with as she levels him with a look. 

“ _Yennefer -_ you like the song?” Jaskier asks, drawing his shoulders back like he’s not shuffling to keep his balance on his feet. 

“I’m not sure - pretty certain I could make more sense of cats fucking than that shrill you call a voice.” His face twists, hugging the lute to his chest as he squints at her. “You find that song at the bottom of a bottle, or the backside of a shitter?”

“Little bit of both, actually - turn ‘round and I’ll check.” Jaksier hissed, swaying where he stood. 

The bards never been one easy on the eyes, scrawny, pompous, too short in some places and too lanky in others - but up close, he looks _awful_. Up close his bloodshot eyes are glistening and watery, his voice just the wrong side of its usual nasal, neat musicians fingers tipped in dirt, and red, raw blisters. His clothing is rumpled, and Yennefer’s actually surprised she can recognise it - the once bright reds dulled with wear, the dark blue velvet jacket scuffed and fraying. 

“Hard times with the Witcher, then?” She says, because she has to - _destiny_ bound as she is - to find out where the bard’s muse is. Surely can’t be far - and yet - 

Jaskier’s eyes harden all the more as he looks at her, his face pinching, fingers tightening ever more on the blasted instrument he’s got clutched to his chest. The bard, finally for once, silent. 

“Come now, Jaskier - what’s the brute off on now - keeping you from a cuckolds cutting block?”

“Stop -,” Yennefer raised a brow, Jaskier’s face closing off as his brows drew.

“-Off to find another djinn to shut you up, then?” Yennefer hissed. 

Like a trap sprung Jaskier snapped, his foot stomping the ground like a child as his fingers mindlessly jangled the strings on his lute, the sound a chaotic chord. “He’s _not_ here!” Jaskier _shouted_ , the tavern around them drawing gently silent at the outburst. “But _fret not_ , I’m sure _destiny’s_ just aching to get you two together again - what a bouncing _bundle of joy_ that could be - “

\-----------------------------------

Tissaia said that magic was _chaos_ . Yennefer once liked to believe she was controlling the chaos, overpowering it into submission, _bending_ it to her will - and yet?

There come the times like this, where she can just _watch_ , passively observe as things begin to happen around her that, logically she _knows_ she’s doing it, but she’s not conscious of it. 

Like the slug - she’s just a _conduit_ for chaos. A mere tool to an end, that ultimately she wants - but has no say in it’s process. 

It’s how she ends up on a sand dune, the wild eyed bard stumbling backwards from vertigo of the portal. 

It’s how they end up in the mountains - Jaskier’s fall landing him on a hill of chipped slate, his limbs flailing as he shouts in surprise and pain. 

It’s how she steps through the portal Jaskier’s just fallen through, to the roar of the ocean buffeting her ears along with the wild drowning gasp of man who’s just swallowed salt water. 

It’s how she ends up crunching into a snow drift, the bard’s clothes soaked in water as he heaves in the once pristine ice, coloring it in brine, beer and bile.

Jaskier’s gagging and gasping, his breathing loud and wild in the muffled silence of the tundra. His already raw fingers are red and chapped by the ice freezing on his skin, the water almost instantly freezing in his hair. 

Yennefer can feel the shiver of cold seep into her coat, her hands readjusting her cuff as she watches the bard sober, and sober fast. She takes a step closer as she can just make out a broken sound from the man, the bards shoulders hunching on himself, whether from the cold, nausea, or fear. 

“Say that _again_ , Jaskier.” 

She imagines it’s a curse of her name, another barbed statement. She can already hear the little whelp muttering under his breath as he chatters and -

Sobs.

Jaskier’s shoulders are hunched and he’s - _crying_ \- his words are heavy and punctuated with bitter tears as he does indeed - say it again. 

“At least he’ll _want_ you back… no matter what _caused_ it.” Jaskier hiccups. “He’s going to _want_ you no matter _what_ . D-destiny or _not -_ you - you’re not the one _shoveling shit_ ... Not his life’s _c-curse._ ”

Yennefer watched, rapt in a way one can’t look away from a wolf killing a deer. It’s obscene and violent. The shaking of his shoulders, snot, blood, and tears pouring from his face. Jaskier’s blue eyes meet hers, the watery redness of them making them shine a sickly green. 

“He loves _you_ ; you leave, and somehow _I’ve_ ruined his life.”

Jaskier folds in on himself, shaking arms, shaking hands, fingers still miraculously holding on to the _damned_ lute despite its scratches and broken string from the hillside tumble. When he cries this time it’s… raw. It’s deep throated, gutteral and gutted. It’s the keen of a broken heart. A bitter lament. 

Yennefer sighed, the warmth surrounding them as Jaskier drops lower in the mud, the dull roar of the tavern they’ve just arrived at a low hum to their left. She knelt by Jaskier’s head her hand raising to his shoulder - hesitating for just a moment, a gentle comfort not one of her specialties, not one she’d freely _wish_ to give and yet - here she is...reaching out.

He vomits on her shoes, his head rocking forward and her hand catches his shoulder.

 _Lovely_. 


End file.
